


you were my friend, and I was the same

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MAG 179, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26526862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: What if Basira had taken Helen’s door, leaving Jon to kill Daisy himself?Episode tag for what might have been, post MAG 179.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 124





	you were my friend, and I was the same

“Let me go, please D— _ahh_ —”

“Jon!”

Eyes blazing, teeth painted crimson with the blood of the Archivist, the thing-that-once-was-Daisy digs further and further into his leg and shoulder—spilling more of Jon onto the ground beneath them with every passing moment. And Martin—what could Martin do? What good could his knife—small and shaking in his hand—do against this monstrosity, this abomination that had once been Jon’s friend?

“J-Jon, what—what can I do?”

“I’m— _ahh_ —I’m sorry,” he grits out between his teeth, even as his eyes go electric green, beginning to spill over the edges—with ink, or blood, Martin will never be sure. 

“W-what are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Daisy.”

**_Boom._ **

_—_

When next he opens his eyes, Martin finds himself crumpled on the ground, ears ringing loud enough to deafen him, blinking in the…

_Red light?_

_…oh fuck fuck fuck fuck_

Quickly bringing himself up to his hands and knees, he scans the room dizzily for Jon—finding him lying motionless on the ground, surrounded by what must be Daisy’s remains coating the walls, the ceiling, the light fixtures—

Everything but Jon himself.

No remains have touched him—but the blood blossoming over his shoulder and leg, the way his eyes have closed in what has become such a rare event since this all began—all of it speaks to a hurt Martin had no longer thought possible for him to suffer.

“Jon—oh _shit_ ,” he gasps, rising a bit unsteadily to his feet, barely able to hear his own voice beyond the ringing.

_No no no please no_

His knees slam into the ground as he reaches Jon’s side, pulling off his jacket at once to staunch the flow of his wounded leg—the pressure he places there drawing a low moan from him that Martin sees more than hears.

“Jon! Hey hey hey, are you with me?” he pleads in as calm a voice as he can manage, patting at his arm in an attempt to rouse him.

As if powered on by a switch, his eyes slide open—more like panels than eyelids, really—the absynthian glow of them reflecting against the deep crimson still spilling across his shoulder and chest as blinks once, twice. And then he’s gasping heavily, very nearly jerking upright in panic, had Martin’s hand not been carefully pressed against his uninjured shoulder.

“Woah woah, alright just—just stay down, okay?” Martin soothes as best as he can, knowing his voice shakes with every word after seeing the tears pooling in Jon’s eyes—from pain, or grief, or perhaps both. “You’re—you’re bleeding pretty badly—but I’ve got you, alright?”

“Martin— _ahh_ ,” he chokes, gritting his teeth again through the pain as Martin presses further into his leg.

“Sorry, sorry. I-I’ve got to keep pressure.”

“I know, I—I’m sorry,” he says quietly, just barely loud enough for Martin to hear past the fading ringing of his ears.

“You alright?” Martin asks rather desperately, hoping against hope that Jon will just heal, that they’ll just be able to stand up and leave this place behind.

But Jon’s eyes tell of a different reality—as the glow fades, and they return to their beautiful deep brown—Martin knows that he is beyond spent. Heavy with grief.

With guilt.

“Jon, you—you did what you had to. What Basira couldn’t,” he says, and of course Jon already knows this, but…Martin is more than well-used to the ways Jon justifies his own hurt. “Listen, you—you need to keep pressure on that leg while I sort this…”

“Okay.”

After guiding Jon to sitting, ensuring he will stay upright, he works silently for a while—bringing bandages and cloths from his pack to press against the shoulder. Which barely seems to have healed at all, baffling Martin more than any of the mess surrounding them.

“She was—“ Jon begins after a few minutes of this, pausing to swallow the lump in his throat. 

Face lined with worry, Martin glances up from his task to look at him.

“We were friends there, sort of, near the end.”

“…oh, _Jon_.”

“We went through so much and it just… I wish I could have actually said goodbye.”

And once again, Martin finds himself at a loss. He has always known that he and Jon see things differently, that Jon sees so much of himself in every monster that he cannot help but have pity. No matter what it has cost him. No matter what it will continue to cost him, Jon will choose mercy…but now? Now he had just been forced to kill what was left of his friend—the one person who had been there for him when Martin had not.

_When I turned my back on him._

_… **stop** it._

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he murmurs, cupping Jon’s face as gently as possible with how badly his hands still shake—thumbing away the tears that begin to fall, each one deepening the ache in his chest.

“We said our goodbyes to Daisy after the institute. This was just…this was just dealing with all the stuff she left behind.”

“I suppose,” he whispers, looking away at once as tears continue their silent cascade over the sharp ridges of his face.

Clearly, this has brought him no comfort—strengthening an ever-growing suspicion in Martin’s mind.

“Are you—is this why you’re not healing?” he asks, desperate to be wrong. “What you said before—about people only getting what hurts them the most here—is that why she was able to hurt you?

“I…I don’t—“

“You _do_ know.”

The look Jon gives him now—though wordless and full of pain—gives him all the answer he needs.

“Darling, please,” Martin continues, wanting more than anything to pull him into a hug, but settling for cradling his hand instead. “Please—you have to let yourself heal. This—this isn’t your fault, none of it is.”

“Isn’t it?” comes the whispered reply, broken and trembling, shattering Martin’s heart with its force.

“ _No_. None of this is. You—you had to do this. I-I may not have known Daisy like you did, but—but this wasn’t her. Not anymore, right?”

_Please heal, Jon. Please._

_Please._

When Jon lets his eyes fall closed again, Martin rushes to brace him with a small cry—but even as he looks on, the incessant flow from his wounds begins to slow, the holes she had torn through him starting to knit back together as he begins to mend _._

“Oh thank god, thank god, thank god,” Martin sighs with relief, pulling Jon into his chest at once, no longer fearing to cause more bleeding. “You alright? Jon?”

As he holds him there, shoulders still so thin against his own, the only reply that comes is a steadily growing shaking—wracking down Jon’s entire frame.

“Oh, love,” Martin murmurs worriedly, turning to press a kiss against his still-damp cheek. 

“S-she was—my _friend_ ,” is all he can manage to get out past the sobs, driven hard by the waves of shock still running through him.

“I’m so sorry, Jon. I’m so sorry,” he whispers into his hair, pressing kiss after kiss there, before leaning his cheek on top.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! you can find me on tumblr @celosiaa. I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you have a great day! <3


End file.
